


A Different Time, A Different Place

by owlmoose



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age II
Genre: Depression, Established Relationship, F/M, Friendship, Jealousy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-30
Updated: 2011-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-28 11:58:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/307646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlmoose/pseuds/owlmoose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An argument about a mission has put a wedge in Marian Hawke's relationship with Anders -- he's changing, pulling back, keeping secrets from her. Then a visit from his Grey Warden friends brings more issues to the light, and she has no choice but to confront him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on the DA kinkmeme:
> 
> "Anders may not have parted with the Wardens on good terms, but he does seem to remember the Awakening crew in a positive light (waxing nostalgic about Justice and Sigrun; cheerfully reminiscing with Delilah about Nathaniel). This becomes especially jarring if you start "Finding Nathaniel" after "Justice". One moment, he's in his Act III depression, giving off the vibe of a dying man saying goodbye to his loved ones,and the next he perks right up and chats happily about young master Howe.
> 
> How do you deal with knowing that people who are separated from your lover by several years and an ocean seem to do more for his peace of mind than you can?"
> 
> Set within the Fidelity universe, although not directly connected to that series.

It was just another day in the Hanged Man: Hawke sat in her usual chair, flanked by Isabela and Varric, and waited for Anders, who was late, as a half-empty pitcher of ale rested on the table. Just another day, until the front door opened to admit two dwarves in Grey Warden armor. Wardens were a rare sight in Kirkwall, and Hawke wasn't sure she'd ever even seen a dwarf Grey Warden before. She supposed it ought not to be that strange -- most dwarves spent their lives fighting darkspawn, and the Hero of Ferelden herself was a dwarf. But somehow she still found it jarring.

The dwarves removed their helms, revealing themselves to be one man and one woman; the man, a stout specimen with a flaming red beard, made a beeline for the bar, while the woman stopped and looked around. She had a complex set of tattoos on her face, and Hawke nudged Varric. "What are those all about?"

Varric's brow furrowed. "Huh. She's Legion of the Dead. They patrol the front lines of the Deep Roads. Membership is a sort of last resort for criminals and outcasts. Kind of like the Wardens are, for some surfacers. Odd, to leave one to join the other."

"Odd all around," Isabela agreed. "The one with the red hair looks vaguely familiar. I wonder if -- oh, there's Anders! Finally."

Hawke looked away from the dwarves to the door, where Anders had appeared, still a startling sight in his new black coat. He caught her eye and started making his way over to the table, but at the same time the female Warden turned around and let out an actual squeal of delight.

"Anders!"

He froze in shock, and then his face broke into a smile, the first genuine smile Hawke had seen from him in months. "Sigrun?"

"It is you!" The dwarf woman launched herself at Anders and threw her arms around him; he returned the hug with enthusiasm. "Nathaniel told us he saw you here, but I didn't expect we'd actually run into you."

"And now you have." Anders squeezed her shoulders, then let her go. "Is that Oghren with you?"

The other dwarf, who already had a mug of ale in his hand, sauntered over to them and raised the mug in salute. "Well, I'll be a nug in a cesspool. If it isn't old Sparkle-fingers!"

"Sparkle-fingers?" Varric sat up straighter, then shook his head, clucking his tongue against his teeth. "Damn. That's brilliant! Why didn't I think of that?"

"Quiet," Isabela hissed, leaning forward. "I'm trying to spy on them. I mean, hear."

Hawke sighed and rubbed her forehead with her fingertips. "I can't take you anywhere."

Meanwhile, Anders was approaching with the two Wardens. She got to her feet and held a hand out to him; he took it and pressed a light kiss to her cheek. "Hawke, I'd like you to meet some old friends from Vigil's Keep: Sigrun and Oghren. This is Hawke, and Varric, and Isabela."

Hands were clasped, names and titles were exchanged, and then Anders motioned to a chair. "Have dinner with us?" he asked.

Sigrun shook her head. "I'd love to, but we can't really stay. We're on our way to meet up with some other Wardens a ways north of here, and they're expecting us. Just stopped here because someone couldn't go another step without a drink."

She shot a mock-fierce glare at Oghren, who shrugged, then belched. "Yeah, well, you can't expect me to live on that mabari piss we bought in Amaranthine forever."

Anders's expression turned pleading. "Just a few minutes? Long enough for Oghren to finish that drink and have another? You know you want to." He turned his most winning smile on Oghren, who grunted in resignation as he sat in the offered chair. "Excellent!" He turned and waved to Norah. "Another round?"

A fresh pitcher and two more glasses arrived, and soon the Wardens fell to drinking and reminiscing. Varric sat back and listened to their stories in rapt fascination, clearly filing it all away for future use; Isabela excused herself halfway through to order some food. But Hawke found herself watching Anders, taking in the lightness of his tone, the ease of his smile, the way he teased Sigrun and tousled her hair, the lightness with which she joked in return, jabbing his shoulder and laughing. He was like a different person tonight. A happier one. With a jolt, she remembered the last time she had seen him like this: when they had encountered Nathaniel Howe in the Deep Roads. Clearly, something about his old companions from the Wardens brought this change out in him.

She was shaken from these unquiet thoughts by Anders shifting next to her, emptying his glass and setting it down with a gentle thud. His voice turned serious as he asked his next question. "Have you heard from the Commander?"

Sigrun raised her eyes in surprise. "Nathaniel didn't tell you? She's back at the Keep. Has been for awhile. It took her over a year to wrap up all her business in Orzammar: setting up her House, arranging for an heir and an Assembly representative, wrangling with King Harrowmont. But she took back command once all that was done. She's in Denerim a lot, as you might expect." She winked, and Anders chuckled. "But she's still the same old Commander, running a tight ship and expecting nothing less from us."

"Well. Good." Anders looked down at his hands, folded on the table, and a moment of awkwardness fell on the group, broken when Sigrun pushed her chair back from the table.

"Okay," she said with a look at Oghren. "Guess we have to get going -- the Warden-Commander of the Marches is expecting us. But I might have some more time on the way back. I'll drop by that clinic of yours if I can. We'll catch up. Or... maybe you could come with us?"

She cast a hopeful look at Anders, but he only shook his head. "I left the Wardens for many reasons. None of them have really changed."

"One of them has." Sigrun tipped her head sideways. "The Commander would smooth things over with the others, I know she would."

Anders shrugged. "Even if that were true, it wouldn't matter. My life is here now." Under the table, he slid a hand onto Hawke's thigh and squeezed it gently, glancing at her with a sideways smile.

Sigrun followed his eyes and looked at Hawke thoughtfully, then back at Anders with a grin. "Fair enough. Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find us."

"I won't." Anders lowered his eyes. "But thank you, regardless. And please, do drop by on your way back. It would be my pleasure."

"It's a date, then. Oghren, you ready?" He nodded, and Sigrun smiled her way around the group as she stood. "It was nice to meet you all. Especially you, Hawke. I hope we have the chance to talk more next time." After another round of handshakes, Anders walked her and Oghren to the door, clapping Oghren on the shoulder and embracing Sigrun in farewell, then standing with them to talk a few minutes longer.

Isabela, who had returned with food some time ago, caught Hawke's eye, arched an eyebrow. "Jealous?"

"What?" Hawke realized that she had been staring and shook herself free of her reverie. "Oh, no. Of course not. Why should I be?"

"Can't say I would blame you," Varric commented. "That is one fine lady dwarf." He glanced at his crossbow, propped against his chair, and patted it. "But don't worry, Bianca. You're still the only girl for me."

Hawke had to laugh. "No, truly. That looked to be brotherly affection, at most. But... it is odd, how happy he was to see her. Do you remember the last time he was that happy?"

Isabela shrugged. "Has Anders ever been happy in the time you've known him?"

"It's just curious." Hawke shook her head and sat back down. "Or maybe all I need is another glass of ale. Norah!" She caught the barmaid's eye and waved her over. "Another pitcher, if you would."


	2. Chapter 2

Hawke and Anders stayed late at the Hanged Man that night, chatting and drinking, Varric wheedling Grey Warden tales from Anders until he begged off from tiredness. Then an awkward moment as Hawke prepared to leave, uncertain whether Anders would come with her; he'd taken to staying overnight at his clinic more often lately -- up late writing, he claimed, and loathe to disturb her sleep. And perhaps that was a true reason, but Hawke still felt him pulling away from her, ever since their argument about the fake potion and his mysterious errand in the Chantry.

But tonight there was no question; he said farewell to Isabela and Varric, and then he drew her hand through the crook of his arm without a word, before setting off in the direction of Hightown. The trip passed in a pleasant silence, the space between them more comfortable than it had been for months. When they reached the bedroom, Anders shrugged off his coat, hanging it up with a glance in the direction of his writing desk, pausing as if in thought. Then he shook his head and sat on the bed instead, pulling off his boots and tunic before falling back against the pillows with a contented groan. He looked up at Hawke and turned his hand palm-up on the mattress, fingers slightly curled in invitation. "Well, love, shall we turn in?"

A question that felt more like an accusation was on the tip of Hawke's tongue, but she swallowed it. Anders was here, in their bed, half-naked and beckoning her to join him, his face transformed by the smile that was all the more beautiful for its rarity. She loved that smile; what should it matter who had put it on his lips, or why? It was a gift, shared with her, meant to enjoy for as long as it might last. So she smiled back, laced her fingers through his, and allowed him to draw her down to him. "I thought you'd never ask," she said, stretching herself out against the planes of his body -- too thin, some part of her mind registered, always too thin, but at least he had eaten heartily tonight. Pushing all the negative thoughts away, she rolled on top of him, kissed him; he brought his arms around her and kissed her back, his hands in her hair, his teeth nibbling her lower lip, and she let herself be transported back to a simpler time.

But, as Hawke had expected, the transformation didn't last. Within a few days, Anders had withdrawn again, excusing himself from social gatherings, coming home one night in three at best, lost in thought even when he was present. And all Hawke could do was watch in pained frustration, disbelieve his vague excuses, and wonder.

"You've been quiet lately," Isabela commented one afternoon as they walked out to the Wounded Coast, Aveline and Merrill some distance behind them. It was a lovely day for a walk, and to search for a band of particularly troublesome lyrium smugglers, and Anders was too busy to come on an errand like this, or so Hawke had told herself when she'd decided not to ask him along. "Ever since those Wardens came to visit last month. Have they been back, by the way?"

Hawke shook her head. "Not yet. Sigrun sent a letter, though." She thought back to the letter's arrival, the day before yesterday, and how Anders's face had lit up when he'd seen the name scrawled on the envelope. They might come back through about two weeks from now.

Isabela arched an eyebrow. "That's quite an impressive scowl you have there." Then her eyes lit up, and she grinned. "I knew it! You are jealous. Honestly, Hawke. That dwarf girl is cute as a button, but I don't think she's his type."

"I told you, I'm not jealous," Hawke snapped. Then she sighed. Isabela always could see right through her. "At least, not in the way you mean. It's more..." She stopped, looked around to make sure that the others were still out of earshot. "Has it seemed to you that Anders has been more depressed than usual lately? More intense, withdrawn?"

Isabela shrugged. "With Anders, who can tell?"

"I can," Hawke said, softly. "The other day, I caught him trying to give a treasured memento to Varric as a gift. And then he hit me with this line thanking me for all I'd done for him, and it felt like a farewell speech that he'd been rehearsing for days." Her voice dropped to a near-whisper. "It-- it frightened me."

Isabela looked at her with surprise. Hawke took a deep breath, collected herself, continued. "But when the Wardens came, he became a different man. You saw him. He smiled, laughed, joked, told funny stories. And you said it yourself: he hasn't been like that since-- well, ever. Not in the time I've known him. And when that letter from Sigrun arrived? It was the same. He perked right up and started planning for her visit as if he hadn't given up on life just a few days before."

"Hawke." Isabela's brows shot up in alarm. "You can't be serious. He's not..."

"I don't know." Hawke raised a hand to her forehead, closed her eyes briefly, felt the fear that lived deep in her bones, the worst-case scenario that she dared not put into words, not even to herself. "I just don't know."

"Well." Isabela settled her hands on her hips. "You need to talk to him. This is going to eat you alive otherwise. If he needs help, you have to at least try."

Hawke turned away and looked up at the sky, mocking her with its cheerful blueness. "But that's just the problem. I'm not sure there's anything I _can_ do to help him. And if helping him means letting him go... I-- can't, 'Bela, I-- I don't think I'm strong enough."

Isabela's hands fell on Hawke's shoulders and spun her around, her expression affectionately stern. "You, Marian Hawke, are strong enough to do whatever needs to be done." She gave Hawke a light shake. "That's been true for the last six years, and it's true today. And if you need my support, you know you have it. Whatever you ask. All right?"

Hawke managed a smile. "All right," she said. She pulled away from Isabela, then drew her dagger from its sheath and tossed it into the air. It described a lazy spinning arc, blade flashing in the sun, the grip falling into her palm. "Now let's see about finding those smugglers, shall we?" At least lyrium smugglers were an enemy she knew how to fight.


	3. Chapter 3

Hawke had expected to have several days to work out a strategy for her serious discussion with Anders, but once again he confounded her, this time by being home already when she returned from her errand, sitting on the couch in front of the fireplace, a plate of bread and cheese beside him, a half-empty wineglass in his hand. As she entered the room, he looked up with a quizzical smile. "Welcome back, love. You've missed dinner; shall I send for a tray?"

"Thank you, but I'm not hungry." Hawke walked behind the couch, let her hand lightly trail over Anders's shoulder as she passed. "Good night."

She had barely placed a foot on the bottom step before he caught up to her, fingers closing around her armored elbow. "Hawke? What's wrong?"

"Nothing." She shook him off, then stopped, took a deep breath, composed herself before turning around with a smile that she hoped looked less forced than it felt. "Nothing, really. I'm just tired."

"Ah." Anders crossed his arms and looked her up and down with his healer's eye, presumably taking inventory, noticing the mud on her boots, a small cut on her forehead, and a new dent in her breastplate. "Well. You do look tired, I'll give you that. What trouble were you running off into without me today?"

"Got word of some particularly foul lyrium smugglers holed up on the coast. I took the girls out, and we took care of it." Hawke shrugged. "Easy work, not something I wanted to bother you with. Everything's fine." She turned away again and started making her way back up the stairs "Nothing you'd care about, anyway," she muttered under her breath as she resumed her journey toward the bedroom.

"Hey." Anders was at her heels, taking the stairs two at a time. His hand on her arm was more insistent this time, and when she faced him, he was frowning. "What is going on with you today? Tell me, love, please."

"You want to know?" Hawke glowered at him. This confrontation was a bad idea, a terrible idea, but it appeared it was going to happen regardless. Best to get it over with, then. "I'll tell you. I've been wondering whether you be happier if I let you go back to the Wardens."

Anders's brows shot upward, then shook his head in slow disbelief. "Whatever gives you that idea? You may have noticed that I don't exactly speak highly of them."

Hawke crossed her arms and nodded pointedly downstairs, in the direction of the correspondence table. "You speak highly enough of one of them."

A wash of red appeared over Anders's cheeks. "You think-- Sigrun-- you think Sigrun and I--" He sputtered and turned away, breathing hard, then glared back at her, his hands curling into fists. "Have I ever said one word about your close friendship with Varric? Or Isabela? Or that Maker-blighted _elf_? No, I have not. What gives you the right to assume--"

She cut him off with a wave of her hand. "It's not that. Really, it isn't. I know you and Sigrun are simply friends, and I would never begrudge you anyone's friendship. It's... it's more complicated than that." Hawke took a step backwards and then a few deep breaths to clear her head. "It's not only Sigrun. It's all of them: Nathaniel, Justice, the Warden-Commander, even that foul drunkard who was here with Sigrun last month. When you talk about them, and your time with them in Amaranthine, you seem to become a different person. A happier person. And so..." She spread her hands with a sigh. "So... I wonder if you wouldn't be better off going back. Whether the Grey Wardens might be able to make you happier than I can."

"Oh." Anders started shaking his head again, with understanding. "Oh, love. No. It's not like that at all."

"What is it like, then?" Hawke lifted her chin and looked up at him. "You don't-- you don't talk to me anymore. Not really."

"I... know." Now it was Anders's turn to look away, and he fell silent for some time. "I know I've been distant and difficult lately, ever since. Well. You know." Hawke did know, and she was just as glad not to have Anders bring up the specifics. That was not an argument she was prepared to relive any time soon. He looked up again, and she saw sorrow and regret etched onto his brow. "Come back downstairs. Sit with me, and we'll talk."

Hawke nodded. "Let me change first." Without waiting for his acknowledgement, she went into her room, stripped off her armor and underclothes in favor of the soft gown she preferred to wear around the house, and came back into the sitting room before she could change her mind. Anders was, as promised, back in the sitting area, two fresh glasses of wine on the table, and he stood by the fireplace, hand on the mantle, staring pensively into the flames. She took a moment to watch him from the top of the stairs, to admire how the firelight caught the ruddy highlights in his hair. He was beautiful, and he was hers. But for how much longer?

When she reached the couch, she took the fresh glass from the table, then drank. The wine was one of the better vintages from the Amell family cellars; it was smooth on her tongue and warm going down. Taking another sip, she took a corner of the couch, tucking her foot beneath herself as she nestled back into the cushions. Anders sat down in the other corner, facing her, bowl of the crystal goblet balanced in his hands. "Here is what you must understand: I was a different man when I joined the Wardens. I was shallow, self-centered, shameless. And angry, so very angry -- at the Chantry for caging me, at the Templars for hunting me, at my family for allowing them to take me away. But I buried those feelings deep: under sarcasm and meaningless flirtation, and what I liked to think of as a stunning wit. And then I built all those defenses up into an armor of indifference toward others. I took pride in my ability to heal people, and deluded myself into thinking that was the same as caring about them, but that was all. Nothing really touched me. I wouldn't let it. Yes, I was very different, then. You might not have recognized me. And I can almost promise that you wouldn't have liked me very much." He looked down into glass. "I know I certainly didn't."

He paused, swirling the wine before taking another drink, and Hawke heard the 'but' before he said it. Then he set the glass aside and looked up. "But I will confess that I miss him sometimes, the glib Anders who could slip his chains and pretend he hadn't a care in the world. When I found the Grey Wardens and saw in them a way out of the Circle for good, it was like a miracle. Perhaps it was only the illusion of freedom, but for that Anders, the illusion was enough. Being with Sigrun, talking about my comrades from those days, transports me back there. For a little while, I can be a different man, in a different time, in a place far from here. A simpler time. And, yes, in some ways a happier one." He shook his head. "But it is only an illusion. I could not go back to being that man, even if I wanted to."

Hawke sipped a bit more wine, then leveled her gaze at Anders over the glass. "Because of Justice?"

"In part." He dipped his head in acknowledgment. "But not only because of that." He leaned forward and rested a warm hand on her knee. "Knowing you, following you, has changed me as well. You've taught me that one person can be a real force for good in the world. For change. You're an inspiration to me, love. And knowing what I know now, I could never go back to being just another cog in the Warden's machine."

"But what if I don't want to be an inspiration?" Hawke placed her glass on the floor, then rested her hand atop Anders's. "The truth is, I am jealous of Sigrun, a little. I'm jealous that she knows how to put a smile on your face, that she can make you laugh, that she can lighten your load, even if only for a little while. And that's something I fear I've never really understood how to do."

Anders leaned closer in, eyes bright in the firelight. "Ah, my love. Don't you know how much you mean to me? How much I have appreciated your support, your partnership? I've tried to tell you." He turned the hand on her knee and twined his fingers around her wrist. "But perhaps I haven't said it often enough."

"No, you have, but--" She shook her head and looked away, the pain and fear and worry rushing back. "Lately, when you've said such things, they carry an air of finality. As though you thought it might be your last chance to say them. That scares me."

For a long moment, the only sound was the crackling of the fire. Anders flexed his fingers against hers, his thumb caressing the back of her wrist in long slow strokes, sending a gentle shiver up her arm. When he finally spoke, he didn't look up, but kept his eyes focused on their joined hands. "We lead dangerous lives," he said, almost too low for her to hear. "Every day could be our last."

"I know." Hawke let the moment settle as she chose her next words with care. She had already shown this much of her hand; time to lay the rest of the cards down, and hope not to lose the game too badly. "But that's been the case for as long as we've known each other. You didn't offer Varric your most treasured possession three years ago; you only did that last week. Don't try to tell me this isn't different."

This time, the silence fell like a heavy cloak, its weight suffocating the space between them, the air thick with everything she'd left unsaid since the Chantry. Almost she pulled away, but then he tightened his grip and looked up, his gaze holding hers, so intense that she could not break it. For a moment she felt a flash of fear, but no -- his eyes were clear brown, not a flicker of blue or white in their depths. "I love you," he murmured. "And you do make me happy. In a way that no illusion, no memory could even begin to touch." He lifted his other hand to her face, rested the tips of his fingers on her lips, traced the outline of her mouth. "You are my right place, my right time. Never doubt that."

He hadn't answered her question, but his words and their sincerity still tugged at her heart; she closed her eyes and he kissed her, mouth gentle and warm and insistent, his fingertips light on the back of her neck. Her hands slid up his thighs and over his back; she shifted onto the sofa and wrapped her calves around his waist. He lifted her into his lap without breaking the kiss, his lips pressing harder against hers, and he moaned. She ran her hands up, up and into his thick hair, feeling it tumble loose around his face; meanwhile, his fingers quested for the belt that kept her robe tied shut. "Hawke," he murmured against her mouth, hand resting on the buckle for a moment before flipping it open and then tossing the belt to the floor. "Oh, love."

The sound of his voice sent a thrill down her spine just as surely as the feel of his hand curving around her breast, the tongue that pried her mouth open, the groan that she pulled from his throat as she responded in kind, tongues wrapping around one another. She pulled the tunic free of the waistband of his pants and laid her hands on his back, gasping as his finger found a nipple and began worrying at it. "Oh, yes, Anders, love. Oh yes." He grasped the nipple in a light pinch, rolled it between the pads of fingertip and thumb, and she shuddered against him, gasping, then pressed her lips to his temple and murmured his name again.

The churn of her thoughts had quieted, rendered silent by the white heat of his mouth on her neck, exploring the hollow of her shoulder and further down, trailing kisses as he pushed her robe back to bare even more skin. "Let me make you happy," he whispered, his breath buzzing against her flesh. In response, she settled her hips more snugly against him, snuggling into his lap, close enough to feel his arousal through the fabric of his pants. He groaned and lifted her again, this time leaning her back into the couch.

Her robe was all the way open now, and she lay naked before him, his hungry eyes roaming over her body, then lifting to meet hers, and she could see all the fires that burned there: the desire, the need, the love, and yes, even happiness. It was no one else who brought him to this place, she suddenly knew. Not Sigrun, not Nathaniel, not the Commander. Only her.

"Yes," she said again, and then she yanked his pants down, over his waist, down his thighs, revealing the cock that stood ready for her. Cupping his ass with one hand, she wrapped the other around him, and he hissed a breath between his teeth, arching his back at the gentle tug of her fingers. "You know how."

"Oh. Yes." He grunted it out between gritted teeth, slowly thrusting his cock into her hand, then away, then lowered himself back down, stretching the full length of his body along hers. "I know." He ran a hand from her shoulder, down her arm, catching her fingertips for the briefest moment, then releasing them to stroke her waist, her hip, her thighs. "Right here, like this." His hand came up between, up into her cleft, just barely touching the nub there; he flicked it with his fingers, first back and forth, then in slow circles, coming closer and closer to the core. He spoke a word, and a single spark jumped free, just tickling the most sensitive spot, but its lightest touch was a match to her tinder and the spark became a flame, coursing through Hawke's blood, and she cried out, bucking her hips as he stroked her and she clung to him.

He leaned down to her again, taking her mouth in a kiss that she returned with a frenzy. "For you," he murmured. "All for you."

"For me," she agreed, taking his cock in her hand again and pulling him closer. "All for me."

He lifted an eyebrow and smiled. "Already?"

She replied not in words but by drawing him down and shifting her legs so that he nestled between them, one knee brushing each hip. He responded, grasping his shaft with his own hand and rubbing it against her, first up and down in a sweeping motion, and then thrusting inside her, filling her with one single movement, grunting with pleasure and effort. For a moment, she just held him there, pinioning him with her legs, keeping him still, quivering around him. Once again he moaned, tried to move, but she was too strong for him, and so he settled more tightly against her.

"Mine," she repeated.

"Yours," he answered, and then she let him go, drawing her own hips back and then rising to meet him, starting a slow, careful rhythm that built faster and faster until he was gasping, head thrown back, then forward. Harder, deeper, until finally he let go with a cry, his hands grasping her shoulders and his mouth on hers, tongue buried deep as he shivered and moaned with his release.

The fire was nearly down to embers before Anders pulled free and sat up, pulling her into his side, stroking her hair. "I love you," he said. "And I know you love me. Always. It was wrong of me to suggest that I had any doubts."

Hawke leaned her head against his chest. It was the apology she had needed, the one she had never expected to hear, and her next breath was the easiest she had taken in weeks. She brought her hand up to cover his heart, felt it beating beneath her palm: slow, steadily, alive. "Thank you," she murmured; she nestled closer into him and closed her eyes. Even if he was not telling her the whole truth, at least he had not lied to her again. And here, in this time and place, content in the warmth of his arms and the fire, she could let that be enough.


End file.
